


Tea with Barty Crouch

by MirandaBeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaBeth/pseuds/MirandaBeth
Summary: Missing moment/alternate POV from Goblet of Fire.





	Tea with Barty Crouch

“In you go, Longbottom,” Professor Moody growled, holding his office door open and gesturing impatiently as Neville hesitated. “You'll sit down, and you'll have some tea before you face your classmates again.”

The paralysing fog which had taken Neville over so completely in Moody’s classroom had been mostly swept away by the prospect of tea with someone as terrifying as his new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and the walk towards that fate had cleared the remainder. Now, he belatedly considered refusing the invitation, but then found himself thinking of the puzzled sympathy etched all over Hermione’s face and the confusion on Harry’s and Ron’s.

Right. Perhaps Moody's idea was best after all.

Neville took a few steps into the room, and Moody shut the door behind them with a bang that startled him. As the teacher clunked over to the sideboard behind his desk where a kettle stood, Neville gaped around at the assortment of magical equipment cluttering the office. His grandmother had a lot of his parents’ old Dark Detectors displayed around the house, but even between his mum and dad there weren’t anywhere near the number this retired Auror had littering every surface of his office. He actually didn’t even know what some of them did.

Moody boiled the perfectly ordinary kettle with a tap of his wand, and reached down into a cupboard to take out two cups. He gave them a suspicious stare, turning each cup over and examining it from all angles, then muttered a cleaning charm, pointing his wand at each cup in turn. He then pulled two teabags out of a pocket in his robes, and without looking around or pausing in his movements, barked, “Sit, Longbottom!”

Neville jumped again and realised he was still standing frozen just inside the door. He moved awkwardly to Moody's desk and sat on the edge of the chair which faced it. Moody brought over the cups, now brimming with tea, and sat down himself, stretching out his wooden leg under the desk with a little grunt.

Neville accepted his teacup when Moody pushed it across the desk to him, grateful for somewhere to put his hands. He raised the cup to his mouth, accidentally looked directly at Moody's misshapen face, and choked on a mouthful of tea. That bright blue magical eye was pointed right at him, and he had the feeling it could see far more than he wanted anyone to see. Coughing, Neville lowered his teacup, before he spilled any more than he already had.

Moody was still piercing him with his gaze. "Don't think I don't know what happened back there," he said abruptly. Neville drew a sharp breath. He had sort of thought they were both just going to ignore his near-breakdown in the classroom, but apparently he’d been wrong. "But like I just said—you've got to know. The truth is always better than being in the dark.”

Neville realised he was clutching his teacup with both hands so hard that he thought it would have broken if it had been anything like the fragile cups in Professor Trelawney’s tower room. He unwound his fingers from the handle with difficulty, pretending great interest in the cup. He did not want to talk about this.

“There are dark things in this world, Longbottom,” said Moody ominously. “You young people act like there’s nothing more important than Quidditch, or detention, or essays, or—well, I even had a couple of fifth years in my classroom yesterday debating the finer points of a _love triangle_ they’re involved in.” Neville glanced up to see Moody frowning at him. “ _Your_ classmates at least should know better, what with you and young Potter sitting right there as reminders.“

“Me?” said Neville, surprised into a response. “They don’t know about me. No one knows.”

Moody stared at him. “They must.”

Neville shook his head. “I mean, maybe some – but I don’t think – I haven’t said −“

He still remembered what it had felt like to realise, back in first year, that the thing which had defined him for his entire childhood was simply not taken into consideration at school. Even Draco Malfoy and his little gang of bullies didn’t seem to know or care to find out anything about Neville’s family. Perhaps there had been the occasional flash of sympathy in the eyes of a teacher, but even that was still a far cry from life at home, where none of his Gran’s friends could look at him without thinking of his parents. And Neville was fairly sure none of his fellow Gryffindors knew. No one ever made exceptions or allowances for him, not even the small unconscious ways they sometimes did for Harry.

He remembered that it had been a surprise. It had been upsetting at times, it hadn’t seemed fair.

But he hadn’t wanted to change it.

“They were too young to remember,“ he said, by way of explanation.

“And they don’t _read_?”

His frown was making Neville uncomfortable. “All our History of Magic is earlier… and it wasn’t really important enough …”

Moody’s eyebrows raised. “Those Death Eaters who attacked your family – they terrorised the whole of wizarding Britain with that act. You’re telling me none of the kids in this school heard about it?”

“I talked to Professor Lupin about that last year,” Neville said. Well, not _that_ , precisely, but he had once come to see Lupin about an essay in this very office, and they’d ended up talking about the history and philosophy of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Neville had enjoyed that conversation. It had given him a glimpse into what it might be like to be treated as an equal by adults. “He said it was the whole point of the war, that kids could grow up in peace.”

Moody was giving him an unreadable expression. Neville suddenly realised that it might sound like he was criticising his teacher by the implicit comparison to his predecessor. Hastily, he added, “I mean, knowing about the past is important too, and …”

He tailed off, his face very hot. Professor Lupin had been his favourite teacher, and he’d been very easy to talk to. But that had been a thoughtless thing to say.

“What happened to your folks,” said Moody abruptly, “was one of the worst things I ever saw. How much do you know about it?”

Neville’s stomach swooped sickeningly. “A bit,” he said. “Gran collected all sorts of documents about my dad. She has a copy of the trial record. I didn’t really – I just sort of glanced at it.” He’d gone through a phase a few years ago of being curious, but when he’d got out the file he hadn’t actually been able to bring himself to read many of the details. “I know you were there.”

The old Auror gave him a surprisingly sharp look, then his face relaxed slightly, and he said, “I was first on the scene.”

Neville nodded. “Gran wrote when she found out you were teaching here.” He bit his lip. “She also said you trained my mum?”

Moody ignored both the question and the attempt to change the subject. “It happened in their own home, Longbottom. They thought they were safe - and they weren’t the only ones. Your Professor Lupin’s word – _peace_ – that was bandied about a lot at the time. People thought they could let their guard down.” He glared at Neville. “You’d think a couple of Aurors would know better – you’d think they’d know there had to be _some_ Death Eaters who stayed loyal, even when it looked like their master was gone.”

There was a bitter tone to his voice. Neville’s breathing was shallow. He set down his teacup very carefully on the desk.

“But no, they stopped watching,” Moody went on, “even if it was just for a split second, and _that’s all it takes_. Just one moment of thinking it can’t touch you.” His magical eye was fixed on Neville, boring into him. Neville wanted to ask him not to talk about it, but found he couldn’t speak. His face was sort of frozen.

“I pieced together a lot of what happened that night. I don’t wonder they broke. Do you know, there were whole hours at a time when they didn’t question them at all, just –“

“Don’t,” Neville managed to choke out. His skin was starting to crawl, just like it had in the classroom.

Moody’s good eye flashed at him. “That’s what they said. Your parents. They begged them to stop. They told them everything they knew. They’d have told more, if they’d known any more to tell.“

Neville shut his eyes against it. Moody’s voice went on relentlessly. “They thought they were safe. They’d faced the Dark Lord and survived, and everyone thought he was gone. They thought they’d won. But in the end, their training meant nothing. Their heroics meant nothing. They lost. They let their guard slip for one moment, and they _lost_. You need to understand that.”

The fog was swirling in around Neville again, just like before. He couldn’t move or speak. It was almost like the feeling he’d had that day last year the Dementor came into his train compartment—like this was reality and everything else, all the happiness in the world, was the illusion.

But there was one thing bothering him about what Moody was saying, and he tried to focus in on what it was. “They protected me,” he said faintly.

The scars on Moody’s face deepened into a frown. “What?”

“They protected me,” he said again, more strongly this time, and his conviction deepened with every word. “They hid me. And they never said I was there.”

Moody was staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. His silence was unnerving, so Neville kept talking. “Well, you know that already, of course you do. Gran said in her letter you were the one who found me. I was behind my cot, hidden by a shield. She always says that hiding me must have been the only thing they had time for when the Death Eaters came.”

“They told the Death Eaters you were at your grandparents’,” said Moody quietly.

Neville nodded. “Well, that’s what we think. They didn’t tell them the truth, anyway. Mum and Dad—I was the only thing they had to protect, and they protected me. They didn’t lose.” His fingers were trembling, and he locked them together in his lap firmly. The idea was bright and brilliant now. “They didn’t lose,” he repeated, testing the sound of it again.

Moody was still giving him that inscrutable look. “And were you worth it?”

Neville blinked at him, not sure he’d heard right.

“I said, were you worth it?” Moody barked. “Good student, are you? A powerful wizard? Taking up your parents’ cause in fighting the Dark Arts?”

“I –“

“Because that’s not what I hear, Longbottom.” He leaned forward, his face creasing into new lines. “Professor Lupin’s letter tells me you never grasped most of what he taught your class last year. You’re Transfiguring at a third year level. And as for fighting the Dark Arts, you couldn’t sit through a theoretical class on the Unforgivable Curses today without breaking down.”

Neville felt like he’d been slapped in the face. He swallowed painfully, staring at the corner of the desk. The idea that his favourite teacher would have written those words to his replacement stung most deeply of all. He’d really thought he’d made some progress last year.

He wanted to say that who he had become wasn’t the point, that his parents had been heroes regardless of what they were protecting, but he was distracted by a sudden, vivid imagining of the hopes his parents must have had for the baby he had been.

If they hadn’t taken those precious moments, if they hadn’t shielded him—

He clenched his teeth together very tightly, fighting desperately against the stinging in his eyes. He would not give in. Not here.

With a tremendous effort, he lifted his head. The grizzled old Auror was watching him closely. Neville didn’t trust himself to speak, but met his eyes determinedly.

Moody let out a surprised sound that was almost a laugh. “I see.”

Neville blinked at him.

Moody shook his head. “Have some more tea, boy.” He pointed his wand at Neville’s cup, and it refilled. Some of Neville’s confusion must have been visible, because Moody leant forward and said, with a tone in his voice that might, with imagination, be an apology, “Like I said, you need to take it seriously.”

For lack of anything else to do, Neville picked up his cup and took a sip. The hot liquid was soothing on the lump in his throat, and some of the consuming grief was replaced with a stab of something very like annoyance. Did Moody really think he wasn’t taking any of this seriously? 

Moody rose, clunked across to a cabinet and began to rummage. “I asked a few professors about your class. Had a bit of a special interest, you might say. I think you might like this.” He emerged from the cabinet with a book, clunked back across the room and held it out to Neville, leaning against his desk.

Neville looked at the cover. _Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and their Properties_.

He had questions, but it was still too risky to try to speak, so he took another sip of tea.

“Professor Sprout says you have a real talent for Herbology. That book’s come in right useful for me at times.” He grinned, which was quite a disconcerting expression on his damaged face. “You never know what kind of situation you might need to be prepared for.”

Neville recognised the clumsy attempt at comfort for what it was, but he appreciated the gesture, and in any case, he couldn’t help a warm glow at the praise. “Thanks,” he said, taking the book. _Think about this_ , he told himself determinedly, _think about what Professor Sprout said._

“Keep it as long as you like,” said Moody, pushing himself up off the desk and clomping around to sit behind his desk again. “Now, off with you, Longbottom. It’s dinner-time, and I’ve got lessons to plan.”

A little taken aback at the abruptness of the dismissal, Neville set his teacup down on the desk and got up, clutching the book to his chest with one hand and picking up his schoolbag with the other. “Thanks for the tea,” he said politely. He turned, and had reached the door before Moody spoke again.

“Do you ever think about _them_ , Longbottom? The ones who did it?”

Neville turned, surprised at the question. “Not really,” he said truthfully. He had simply no interest in imagining the kind of evil that would do something like that. “I mean, they’re in Azkaban. For life.”

“Azkaban isn’t necessary so secure these days,” said Moody. Neville thought of Sirius Black, and a little shiver crept across him.

“Still,” he said, shrugging, “They’re not really worth thinking about, are they? I suppose if I do… I just feel sorry for them.” That probably wasn’t the whole truth, but it was all he felt comfortable saying to Professor Moody. He lifted his chin. “My parents were the heroes.”

Moody looked at him for such a long time that Neville was on the point of just excusing himself and leaving, when he finally said, “Yes, they were. You keep at it, Longbottom, and you’ll end up like them after all.”

“Thank you,” said Neville again. It seemed inadequate, but Moody had already turned his attention to a pile of papers on his desk. Neville turned the door handle quietly and left the room.

He stood for a long time on the other side of the door, clutching the book and fighting too hard against what was swirling around inside him to move. Eventually he remembered his suspicions that Moody’s magical eye could see through solid objects, and forced himself to start walking.

Neville did not make it to dinner that night.

But he did make it all the way to his empty dormitory before he finally gave in.


End file.
